


origami heart

by Ceryna



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Confession, M/M, Unrequited Love, aromantic kita shinsuke, author is back on her bs metaphors!!!, love letters as a metaphor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:48:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25389304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceryna/pseuds/Ceryna
Summary: A laugh erupts inside Atsumu’s chest. It’s warm, stifling, and is barely a cough by the time he lets it spill into the receiver. “How d’ya always know what ta say?”Kita snorts. “I don’t,” he confesses, “but I think everyone has things they need ta hear, and people they wanna hear those things from.”
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke/Miya Atsumu
Comments: 18
Kudos: 72





	origami heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [abrandnewheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abrandnewheart/gifts).



> oops.
> 
> thank you to Basti, who got me to start this Atsukita idea. and thank you to Lou, for being an inspiration and for the beta-read. you're a gift.
> 
> this piece hits close to home for me in more ways than i initially intended. you may need tissues.
> 
> recommended listening: the fin. "Missing" >>> [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/6cXDHBiBv7D26BSxrwr9Ou?si=Ve-b5zqaQq6zO6JRvJkBAg) | [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eQ-a2QpP9M0)
> 
> please enjoy.

Atsumu has never been one for love letters. It's not that he doesn't like them – receiving them is a boost to his pride, for sure – but he knows, perhaps better than most, that words lie. They don't always convey what they mean to, and oh, how people lie.

He's told enough lies to last this lifetime and probably the next several combined. Making excuses, causing chaos, spurring laughter – all are reason enough for words to slip between his lips. Never in true malice, but with enough intent to appear so. 

And in those moments after a crisp envelope is pressed into his hands by insistent fingers – shoving feelings there that he can't hope to return, lie after lie has fallen from his mouth. Because he knows, all too well, how words sting, bite, and bruise – but in the aftermath of his loneliness, a bittersweet smile staining his cheeks as he pulls his bottom lip into his mouth… he has never torn an envelope.

On purpose, at least – the crinkle of paper as it rips brings a grimace to his face. No one deserves their feelings to be shorn through a shredder, reduced to ribbons of irreparable fibers. And yet, as he has dealt rejection after rejection, folding the hand he's been given in search of the one he wants – waiting years for the perfect one: warm, callused, soil nudged under fingernails and skin smelling of rice and rain. 

Atsumu has never been one for love letters, but Kita makes him want to try. 

# ***

Atsumu discovers Kita reading on accident in his first year at Inarizaki. He’d meandered to the club room during the lunch hour, going out of his way to drop by – definitely not out of habit. 

The door is open, sunlight streaming in over mats and shelves and stretching over the floor – glowing gold over Kita – just a second year. He sits with his feet outstretched in front of him, back leaning against a blue mat propped against the wall. His thumb rests under the page on the left half of the novel, and slides tenderly over it as he presses it to the right.

Atsumu thinks the sheer grace of that gesture is unreal. How can Kita have this much poise, yet be so blunt about everything else? He’s ridiculously thorough in his studies, on the court, has a healthy diet and sleep routine down to a T. And yet here he is, a soft smile shining on his face – a smile he turns on Atsumu, a smile that whispers “Atsumu-kun” like a secret between pink lips – a smile that folds sparks between Atsumu’s ribs.

The sparks murmur to the embers there, stirring something alive. It thuds  _ Shinsuke, Shinsuke,  _ echoing off an ivory cage, and Atsumu thinks he might be in trouble. 

“Kita-senpai,” he greets. “Whaddya like ta read?”

Kita blinks at him, tilting his head slightly to the side. “I’m not sure,” he admits, and doesn’t glance down as he dog-ears the page he’s on and folds his book shut. “But I am enjoyin’ this.”

He pats the cover, and holds the book out for Atsumu to take. 

So Atsumu does. He runs his fingers over the glossy cover protecting a story underneath, and hands it back to Kita without really seeing it. It will take him years before he’ll realize he wants to hold Kita the same way – to run callused fingertips over his spine, crease over all his edges and protect the stories he carries inside – and never let him go.

# ***

Atsumu, against practically all the advice he’s ever been given in his life, decides to not go to college. He’s been recruited to go pro, and he thinks he loves volleyball enough to do that. But it means he’ll be truly on his own for the first time in his life – no ‘Samu at his back to keep him on his toes, though it also means no ‘Samu there to knock him off of them – living on his own, but having the  _ world’s  _ eyes on him… he’s not sure if he’s ready for that. 

He loves volleyball. That much is certain. He’s already put over half his life into the sport, and you can’t do that without feeling  _ something  _ strongly. But will that  _ something  _ be enough to carry him through a professional career? Can it sustain him through a torn ACL, an over-rotated shoulder or twisted ankle, hairline fractures in his fingers? 

Atsumu thinks it can. But doubt sneaks up beneath his feet, snags phantom hands around his ankles, threatens to  _ snap,  _ and that’s what gives him pause. He’s not ashamed to admit he’s been afraid of losing a match – but what if he could lose  _ all  _ of them? 

All the matches left unplayed, the ones he hasn’t yet earned the right to play – stolen out from under him? 

He sighs, climbs off his bed on the far side to curl up on the floor, away from the door – and holds his phone in his hands. The screen is dim, glowing softly as he presses his fingertip to it. Kita’s contact page gleams to life from where he left it last. 

Maybe it’s a mistake, maybe it’s intentional as his thumb slips to the phone icon and it starts to dial in and ring. Maybe Atsumu half-hopes Kita doesn’t answer, but after the second ring there’s a telltale  _ click  _ and quiet “Atsumu-kun” in greeting. 

Tears fall hotly from Atsumu’s eyes. They burn on their way down, scalding saltwater that he has to fight to keep out of his voice. “Kita-san.” He dropped the  _ senpai  _ suffix some time ago, and hasn’t quite gotten used to  _ -san.  _

“Jus’ ‘Kita’ is fine, Atsumu.”

It’s been over a year since they’ve stood on the same court. Over a year since their hands brushed as they held a team huddle, a year since Kita has had to compensate for Atsumu’s overeagerness amid the squeak of sneakers on hardwood floors. A year, and then some since Atsumu realized his crush on Kita was all-consuming, burning an Olympic torch inside his chest – spitting sparks as it pulls more memories inside. 

Kita is in university now, taking business management courses and majoring in agricultural sciences. He is steadfast in his uncertainty, and Atsumu could really use some of that tonight – really, he could use it forever, but that kind of composure can only be borrowed.

“Kita, I wanna go pro,” he whispers into the receiver. It’s no secret – but as he folds himself into the shadows of his bedroom, phone in one hand and a tear-dampened tissue in the other, it feels like one. “But what if-”

“Lemme stop ya there.” Kita huffs a breath – if Atsumu closes his eyes, he can feel that breath rustle his hair from where Kita would hold him – his back pressed to Kita’s chest, his head supporting Kita’s chin. “No one knows how hard ya’ve worked better than ya. No one knows how much ya  _ want,  _ better than ya. But as yer friend, an’ former captain, I’d like ta think I can attest ta that.”

Atsumu’s tissue is too tear-stained and the box is out of reach. He thumbs away the glassiness in his eyes, smearing saltwater over the backs of his knuckles as he leans to rest his head on the carpet. A weak chuckle escapes him. “Ya haven’ seen me in months.” 

“Jus’ cause m’not on standin’ on tha court with ya anymore doesn’ mean I don’ know what yer capable of.” Kita’s voice rests a gentle hand on Atsumu’s shoulder. It grounds him, anchoring him under its softness. “I can’t say whether goin’ pro is righ’ or wrong fer ya, an’ neither can anyone else. I jus’ have two questions fer ya.”

Only two? Atsumu can’t imagine what they could be, so he asks one of his own. “Yeah?”

Kita chuckles, and the sound sears sunlight over the back of Atsumu’s neck, tucking a kiss into blushing skin. “Yeah. “What do ya want?”

Atsumu blinks, the fog in his mind starting to clear. “To go pro,” he murmurs. It sounds so much simpler now – but he holds his breath, knowing there’s one more question ahead of him. 

“Then what’re ya waitin’ for?”

Atsumu takes a deep breath. Oxygen winds into his lungs, filling them to the brim before he exhales slowly, softly. He hears the rest of the sentiments tucked under that question – things like  _ there’s always risks, there’ll always be people that try ta tell ya whatcha can or can’t do, what yer allowed ta want.  _

But the answer before him is finally clear. He knows the risks – knows them, and won’t let them stop him from chasing his dreams, pursuing them until he lives them, and loves them for as long as he’s able. 

A laugh erupts inside Atsumu’s chest. It’s warm, stifling, and is barely a cough by the time he lets it spill into the receiver. “How d’ya always know what ta say?” 

Kita snorts. “I don’t,” he confesses, “but I think everyone has things they need ta hear, and people they wanna hear those things from.” He pauses for a moment – to let those words sink in, wrapping warm hands around the embers in Atsumu’s ribcage – and then continues. “And if ya need me ta say ‘em fer ya, I don’ mind.”

Atsumu smiles. His teeth sink into his lower lip as he fights back more tears.  _ Different tears.  _ He misses Kita so much it hurts – and he wonders how much it could hurt to let him know. 

What things does Kita need to hear, what people he wants to hear say them. 

_ What’re ya waitin’ for?  _

“I miss ya.” 

Those three words leave Atsumu’s lips in a whisper of a whisper. They are quiet enough that he thinks his phone might not have caught them, but the silence on the other end of the line makes him think those words reached their destination – and if he’s lucky, they’ve made a home there. 

“Atsumu.” Kita’s voice wavers. It’s the most Atsumu has heard it break – as fragile as it’s ever been. “I miss ya, too.”

Atsumu shuts his eyes. He counts to three in his head – or well, he makes it to  _ two  _ before he gives up the secret burning under his collarbones. “I wanna see ya.”

“Alrigh,’” Kita says, and Atsumu thinks he can hear a smile. “I’ll come down nex’ weekend.” 

The back of Atsumu’s hand against his mouth does nothing to restrain the smile overtaking his face in answer. He pries it away to murmur a quiet, “I’ll see ya soon,” before it makes its way back. 

Kita huffs. It doesn't have the weight of a chuckle, but it brushes a promise to Atsumu’s forehead. “See ya soon.” He pauses again, and Atsumu holds on tight for the words that follow. “Goodnight, Atsumu.”

_ Oh.  _ Those words rustle the embers in Atsumu’s chest, stoking a fire so bright he’s not sure he’ll be able to sleep. But he knows how to say goodbye without really saying goodbye, so he does. “Thanks.” He says that first, lets it linger heavy and warm before adding, “G’night, Kita.”

Those aren’t quite the words he wishes he could tell Kita in person, every day, until the end of time – but it’s as close to  _ goodnight, Shin  _ that he’s ever been. 

He hopes that one day, he’ll be closer. 

# ***

Atsumu meets Kita at Kobe Station. It’s late February – a few weeks until he graduates from Inarizaki. Snow flurries down around them, flakes sticking like bits of confetti to Kita’s beanie – but Atsumu can only watch as those flakes drift down to melt against Kita’s eyelashes, glimmering stars as he blinks them away. 

It’s a couple blocks before they slip off the main roads, ducking into a coffee shop. The wooden interior is warmly lit, chalkboard menu hanging over lily-white walls accented by lemon stencils. A breath of fresh, sunny air against the crisp iciness outside. 

Atsumu lets Kita order first – a matcha latte – then steps up behind him to order a cappuccino and pay.

“Ya came all this way,” he murmurs, glancing past the dip-dyed strands of Kita’s hair, down into eyes of brilliant umber. “‘M gettin’ this.”

One of Kita’s eyebrows shifts up. “Very well.” But the edge of his mouth curls up in the slightest of smiles, and he takes a step back from the counter – and Atsumu thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can steal more of these moments where he can take care of Kita, too. 

They sidle over to the booth by the front window, shrugging out of coats and folding them over the back of the seats. Beyond the frosted glass, snow continues to fall. The words Atsumu wants to say, though, don’t fall from his mouth. 

They’re stuck under his collarbones, clamoring painfully in his chest.  _ I love ya, ‘m in love with ya. _ There’s several beats of silence – until a server places their mugs on the table with two ceramic clinks.

“So,” Kita says, sipping his latte with a smile in his eyes. “Your offers?”

Atsumu’s cheeks heat. “What makes ya so sure there’s more than one?” He wraps his fingers through the handle of the cappuccino mug, bracing it as he spoons sugar over the foam and destroys the leaf art in it. 

“Ya don’t make it ta nationals with a powerhouse school an’ then  _ not  _ get noticed.” 

Kita says it like he knows it. It’s fact, worn into the lines of his palms, folded into the calluses on his fingertips – engraved into the muscles of upturned wrists. 

Atsumu swallows down an overly sweet swig of cappuccino, letting the meager bits of bitterness hang on his tongue as he leans across the table. “‘M movin’ ta Osaka nex’ month,” he whispers, that secret ready to spill. “Signin’ with the MSBY Black Jackals.”

Kita nudges his latte glass to clink against Atsumu’s mug. “Congratulations.” When he smiles this time, it stretches over his mouth – a wide, sakura pink crescent that betrays no doubt. “Have fun.”

Kita is relaxed enough that Atsumu relaxes a smidge, too. That he still trusts in Atsumu enough to know he’ll do his best, give everything he has, everything he is to live between lines painted white, five centimeters wide… those thoughts are warm enough to nudge some of the words out of his chest.

“Thanks.” 

Kita is just about the only person Atsumu will say that to and  _ mean it.  _ Gratitude is easy enough to fake, but for Kita –  _ Kita,  _ who offers words of wisdom and comfort, inspires Atsumu to make good choices, encourages routines and rhythms in Atsumu’s life –  _ Kita, _ who asked Atsumu what he wanted, and reminded him to not wait… 

“Have ya read anythin’ good lately?”

It’s the first line in a set of rehearsed options, jotted down on an index card he stole out of ‘Samu’s recipe box – blank, of course, until Atsumu managed to smudge an inky fingerprint on one corner and scrawled kanji haphazardly over the rest of it. 

Kita chuckles. “Haven’t had too much time outside of class,” he admits, “but I find myself goin’ back ta my collections of folk tales.” He sips his latte again, leaving a smear of foam against his lip – and slips his tongue out to curl the froth into his mouth. “Didja have a recommendation?”

And that’s all it takes for Atsumu to blush. Not that it was anything out of the ordinary. No, it’s just that for Kita to do, well,  _ that,  _ instead of wiping the foam off with the dignified, graceful cafe napkin – Atsumu thinks Kita is  _ lovely. _ Maybe the loveliest he’s ever been. 

“Not ‘xactly.” Atsumu reaches for his coat, finding the inner pocket and unzipping it. Sandwiched into the fabric is a pale grey envelope. While the paper may still be crisp, the letter it contains is not – he’d only stolen three pages from his mother’s stationery drawer. One of them was used to brainstorm, one of them was used to draft, and one of them was used to revise that draft countless times.

Atsumu has never considered himself to be good with words in a literary sense. He’s good enough at talking, and prides himself on being great at talking shit – but he’s no writer. 

When he slides the envelope across the table, he pushes it with both hands. Callused fingertips frame the paper into which he’s written his heart – unfolded the origami in his ribs to lay bare, with all its imperfect lines. 

“‘S fer ya.” Atsumu thinks Kita can make a guess as to what the unassuming envelope contains, and swallows down the lump in his throat with a gulp of cappuccino. “Ya don’t hafta read it righ’ now, or ever, really…” 

Kita runs a hand over the pale grey, flicking his thumb over one of the upper corners in a caress before he lifts it up off the table. “I’d like ta read it now, if ya don’t mind.”

Atsumu bites his tongue as he shakes his head. “Please,” he says hoarsely, shoving as many prayers as he can into the word – and holds his breath as Kita flips the envelope over.

Kita tucks his thumbnail gently under the seal, lifts up enough to pinch the paper and slowly pries it away. Up, up, the flap of the envelope rises, until it's creased back and he can reach the heart fluttering inside. He unfolds the rumpled letter – once, then again – and begins to read. His eyes flick back and forth, brow furrowing as he concentrates. 

It’s one of the many reasons Atsumu is so drawn to him. Kita’s ability to focus is something Atsumu has admired for years. To have Kita’s undivided attention – to deserve that, even for a moment, is more than Atsumu could have hoped for.

Hope may be all that Atsumu has ever known when it comes to Kita. Hope to be more than just a setter, more than just  _ Miya.  _ A hope, to thread his fingers through rain-scented, callused ones, that are weathered from hard work and understand the value of determination. 

And perhaps, more than hope itself, a longing. To know who  _ Shinsuke  _ is – to love him up close, just as much as he’s loved  _ Kita  _ from afar. 

The back of Kita’s hand drifts in a whisper to rest against the tabletop. He’s quiet for a moment. Pensive, as his thumb curls over the edge of Atsumu’s heart. 

When he opens his mouth, pink lips parting to answer, Atsumu holds his breath once more –

“‘M sorry.”

Atsumu blinks. “Sorry?” He quirks an eyebrow up, confusion overtaking his cautious smile. “I was hopin’ this wasn’t too sudden…”

Kita meets Atsumu’s eyes. “It’s not that I don’t think I can love you,” he murmurs. “It’s that I  _ can’t.”  _

Atsumu bites his lip. “You can’t,” he repeats – not in disbelief, but to confirm. 

Kita nods. There’s a smile on his face, and it pinches his cheeks, pink lips curving up but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s a sad smile, and it hurts Atsumu more than the rejection he knows is coming. “I can’t love you in the way you need to be loved,” he explains. “I’m not sure I can love at all.”

Atsumu squints his eyes shut. The breath that he held in his lungs shudders them, threatening to shatter – but he knocks the lump in his throat back into his ribs. He swallows his pride. 

He won’t do it for anyone else, but he’ll do it for Kita. 

“Okay.” 

But he can’t quite stomach all of it, so he asks. “You’ve really thought about it.” It isn’t a question, not yet – because he needs to sort through all the words echoing in his head. 

_ The way you need to be loved.  _ How does Kita know? 

And of all the things Atsumu wants to say, which words can truly  _ not  _ be left unsaid?

He chuckles then, a nervous laugh that does nothing to hide the ache taking root between his ribs. “You’ve thought about loving me?”

“Yes.”

It’s a whisper. But it’s as loud as it needs to be for Atsumu to understand.

“Thank you,” he says. And he sits there, in the booth, turns his head to the window – and watches Kita’s reflection finish his matcha latte in its glass.

He’s no gentleman, but for Kita – 

for  _ himself,  _ now – he’ll try. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story (^^)
> 
> comments help fuel my writing! i'd love to know your favorite line, what you liked about the story, or if you'd like to see more Atsukita from me! ^^ 
> 
> I'm on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/Ceryna_writes)!


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